To my little sister,

I don't know where to start or where to end. I do want to apologize, though. An apology because I was the shittiest older sister there ever was. I constantly told you that you were annoying. That I didn't love you. I constantly put you down. When you got older, I had to leave home. I remember you crying and begging, telling me not to leave. You were 13 and still chased the car I was in as far down the block as you could. No one stopped you because they knew you wouldn't get far. I wish I was able to explain it to you then that home was a place I didn't feel safe in and I wasn't able to be myself. I was no longer wanted there. I had to leave.

I got a call a year and a half later, the first time someone from home reached out to me. It was a little after three in the morning. Any phone call after three in the morning is never good. It was something along the lines of, "Noura took her own life. We're at the hospital near the train station. There's no point in you coming, she's already gone." It felt as if someone took away all the heat surrounding me. I had goosebumps all over. For months after that, I was still convinced it was a sick joke. You were hardly 15 and felt the need to take your own life.

I wish I was able to talk to you one more time to tell you how beautiful of a young lady you've become. I wish I could wrap my arms around you one more time and tell you how much I appreciate you and how much you mean to me. And how all the words I told you all those years ago weren't true and I was just being a shitty older sister. I would do anything (and I mean anything) to see your big green eyes again and to hear your soft voice again.

You were an artist. You left me with so many beautiful pieces I plan to hang up on the walls or even get tattooed all over me. The words you spoke through poetry moved me to tears. The way you spoke about people and things and the world made me have some sense of hope that in the years to come, people will have the same mindset as you and all will be well. It hurts that I wasn't able to appreciate it will you were still here.

After leaving home, you asked me a lot about sexuality. Through text and phone calls, you told me things I would never tell another soul, even now, when no one can hurt you for it. I know you were scared of the world, of the people who would think differently about you. It's a scarier place now, believe me.

Noura, I also want to thank you. In Arabic, Noura means light. In the time we were bickering, you were a light for me. A light of guidance, if I must add. It was as if you had a sort of insight on the world. You gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. You saw things in people that no else did. When talking about you to other people, I often compare you to Margo Roth Spiegelman from John Green's "Paper Towns." You were always looking for an adventure.

As we are reaching the month of December, it is about to be three very long years without you. I'm sorry I wasn't the older sister you wanted. I'm sorry I wasn't there on the nights you stayed up crying and wanting it all to be over. I'm sorry that I couldn't be there to tend to your wounds. I'm sorry you will never have a first kiss. Or a Cinderella wedding. I'm sorry you can't have the man—or woman—of your dreams. I'm sorry I wasn't there to stop you.

Noura, I hope you're up there making friends and spreading all the knowledge you have. I love you so much. Happy almost 17th birthday, my little sister. Stay out of trouble.

Love always, Serena.